Men without women
and with no gold lace nor ornaments that would make the dresses look
expensive. Before the present vendeuse, named Thérèse, there had been
another vendeuse, named Amélie. Altogether there had only been these two
in the twenty years. It had always been the same couturier. Prices,
however, had gone up. The exchange, though, equalized that. They had her
daughter’s measurements now too. She was grown up and there was not much
chance of their changing now.
The train was now coming into Paris. The fortifications were levelled
but grass had not grown. There were many cars standing on tracks—brown
wooden restaurant-cars and brown wooden sleeping-cars that would go to
Italy at five o’clock that night, if that train still left at five; the
cars were marked Paris-Rome, and cars, with seats on the roofs, that
went back and forth to the suburbs with, at certain hours, people in all
the seats and on the roofs, if that were the way it were still done, and
passing were the white walls and many windows of houses. Nothing had
eaten any breakfast.
“Americans make the best husbands,” the American lady said to my wife. I
was getting down the bags. “American men are the only men in the world
to marry.”
“How long ago did you leave Vevey?” asked my wife.
“Two years ago this fall. It’s her, you know, that I’m taking the canary
to.”
“Was the man your daughter was in love with a Swiss?”
“Yes,” said the American lady. “He was from a very good family in Vevey.
He was going to be an engineer. They met there in Vevey. They used to go
on long walks together.”
“I know Vevey,” said my wife. “We were there on our honeymoon.”
“Were you really? That must have been lovely. I had no idea, of course,
that she’d fall in love with him.”
“It was a very lovely place,” said my wife.
“Yes,” said the American lady. “Isn’t it lovely? Where did you stop
there?”
“We stayed at the Trois Couronnes,” said my wife.
“It’s such a fine old hotel,” said the American lady.
“Yes,” said my wife. “We had a very fine room and in the fall the
country was lovely.”
“Were you there in the fall?”
“Yes,” said my wife.
We were passing three cars that had been in a wreck. They were
splintered open and the roofs sagged in.
“Look,” I said. “There’s been a wreck.”
The American lady looked and saw the last car. “I was afraid of just
that all night,” she said. “I have terrific presentiments about things
sometimes. I’ll never travel on a _rapide_ again at night. There must be
other comfortable trains that don’t go so fast.”
Then the train was in the dark of the Gare de Lyons, and then stopped
and porters came up to the windows. I handed bags through the windows,
and we were out on the dim longness of the platform, and the American
lady put herself in charge of one of three men from Cook’s who said:
“Just a moment, madame, and I’ll look for your name.”
The porter brought a truck and piled on the baggage, and my wife said
good-by and I said good-by to the American lady, whose name had been
found by the man from Cook’s on a typewritten page in a sheaf of
typewritten pages which he replaced in his pocket.
We followed the porter with the truck down the long cement platform
beside the train. At the end was a gate and a man took the tickets.
We were returning to Paris to set up separate residences.
AN ALPINE IDYLL
IT was hot coming down into the valley even in the early morning. The
sun melted the snow from the skis we were carrying and dried the wood.
It was spring in the valley but the sun was very hot. We came along the
road into Galtur carrying our skis and rucksacks. As we passed the
churchyard a burial was just over. I said, “Grüss Gott,” to the priest
as he walked past us coming out of the churchyard. The priest bowed.
“It’s funny a priest never speaks to you,” John said.
“You’d think they’d like to say ‘Grüss Gott.’”
“They never answer,” John said.
We stopped in the road and watched the sexton shovelling in the new
earth. A peasant with a black beard and high leather boots stood beside
the grave. The sexton stopped shovelling and straightened his back. The
peasant in the high boots took the spade from the sexton and went on
filling in the grave—spreading the earth evenly as a man spreading
manure in a garden. In the bright May morning the grave-filling looked
unreal. I could not imagine any one being dead.
“Imagine being buried on a day like this,” I said to John.
“I wouldn’t like it.”
“Well,” I said, “we don’t have to do it.”
We went on up the road past the houses of the town to the inn. We had
been skiing in the Silvretta for a month, and it was good to be down in
the valley. In the Silvretta the skiing had been all right, but it was
spring skiing, the snow was good only in the early morning and again in
the evening. The rest of the time it was spoiled by the sun. We were
both tired of the sun. You could not get away from the sun. The only
shadows were made by rocks or by the hut that was built under the
protection of a rock beside a glacier, and in the shade the sweat froze
in your underclothing. You could not sit outside the hut without dark
glasses. It was pleasant to be burned black but the sun had been very
tiring. You could not rest in it. I was glad to be down away from snow.
It was too late in the spring to be up in the Silvretta. I was a little
tired of skiing. We had stayed too long. I could taste the snow water we
had been drinking melted off the tin roof of the hut. The taste was a
part of the way I felt about skiing. I was glad there were other things
beside skiing, and I was glad to be down, away from the unnatural high
mountain spring, into this May morning in the valley.
The innkeeper sat on the porch of the inn, his chair tipped back against
the wall. Beside him sat the cook.
“Ski-heil!” said the innkeeper.
“Heil!” we said and leaned the skis against the wall and took off our
packs.
“How was it up above?” asked the innkeeper.
“Schön. A little too much sun.”
“Yes. There’s too much sun this time of year.”
The cook sat on in his chair. The innkeeper went in with us and unlocked
his office and brought out our mail. There was a bundle of letters and
some papers.
“Let’s get some beer,” John said.
“Good. We’ll drink it inside.”
The proprietor brought two bottles and we drank them while we read the
letters.
“We better have some more beer,” John said. A girl brought it this time.
She smiled as she opened the bottles.
“Many letters,” she said.
“Yes. Many.”
“Prosit,” she said and went out, taking the empty bottles.
“I’d forgotten what beer tasted like.”
“I hadn’t,” John said. “Up in the hut I used to think about it a lot.”
“Well,” I said, “we’ve got it now.”
“You oughtn’t to ever do anything too long.”
“No. We were up there too long.”
“Too damn long,” John said. “It’s no good doing a thing too long.”
The sun came through the open window and shone through the beer bottles
on the table. The bottles were half full. There was a little froth on
the beer in the bottles, not much because it was very cold. It collared
up when you poured it into the tall glasses. I looked out of the open
window at the white road. The trees beside the road were dusty. Beyond
was a green field and a stream. There were trees along the stream and a
mill with a water wheel. Through the open side of the mill I saw a long
log and a saw in it rising and falling. No one seemed to be tending it.
There were four crows walking in the green field. One crow sat in a tree
watching. Outside on the porch the cook got off his chair and passed
into the hall that led back into the kitchen. Inside, the sunlight shone
through the empty glasses on the table. John was leaning forward with
his head on his arms.
Through the window I saw two men come up the front steps. They came into
the drinking room. One was the bearded peasant in the high boots. The
other was the sexton. They sat down at the table under the window. The
girl came in and stood by their table. The peasant did not seem to see
her. He sat with his hands on the table. He wore his old army clothes.
There were patches on the elbows.
“What will it be?” asked the sexton. The peasant did not pay any
attention.
“What will you drink?”
“Schnapps,” the peasant said.
“And a quarter litre of red wine,” the sexton told the girl.
The girl brought the drinks and the peasant drank the schnapps. He
looked out of the window. The sexton watched him. John had his head
forward on the table. He was asleep.
The innkeeper came in and went over to the table. He spoke in dialect
and the sexton answered him. The peasant looked out of the window. The
innkeeper went out of the room. The peasant stood up. He took a folded
ten-thousand kronen note out of a leather pocket-book and unfolded it.
The girl came up.
“Alles?” she asked.
“Alles,” he said.
“Let me buy the wine,” the sexton said.
“Alles,” the peasant repeated to the girl. She put her hand in the
pocket of her apron, brought it out full of coins and counted out the
change. The peasant went out the door. As soon as he was gone the
innkeeper came into the room again and spoke to the sexton. He sat down
at the table. They talked in dialect. The sexton was amused. The
innkeeper was disgusted. The sexton stood up from the table. He was a
little man with a mustache. He leaned out of the window and looked up
the road.
“There he goes in,” he said.
“In the Löwen?”
“Ja.”
They talked again and then the innkeeper came over to our table. The
innkeeper was a tall man and old. He looked at John asleep.
“He’s pretty tired.”
“Yes, we were up early.”
“Will you want to eat soon?”
“Any time,” I said. “What is there to eat?”
“Anything you want. The girl will bring the eating-card.”
The girl brought the menu. John woke up. The menu was written in ink on
a card and the card slipped into a wooden paddle.
“There’s the speise-karte,” I said to John. He looked at it. He was
still sleepy.
“Won’t you have a drink with us?” I asked the innkeeper. He sat down.
“Those peasants are beasts,” said the innkeeper.
“We saw that one at a funeral coming into town.”
“That was his wife.”
“Oh.”
“He’s a beast. All these peasants are beasts.”
“How do you mean?”
“You wouldn’t believe it. You wouldn’t believe what just happened about
that one.”
“Tell me.”
“You wouldn’t believe it.” The innkeeper spoke to the sexton. “Franz,
come over here.” The sexton came, bringing his little bottle of wine and
his glass.
“The gentlemen are just come down from the Wiesbadenerhütte,” the
innkeeper said. We shook hands.
“What will you drink?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Franz shook his finger.
“Another quarter litre?”
“All right.”
“Do you understand dialect?” the innkeeper asked.
“No.”
“What’s it all about?” John asked.
“He’s going to tell us about the peasant we saw filling the grave,
coming into town.”
“I can’t understand it, anyway,” John said. “It goes too fast for me.”
“That peasant,” the innkeeper said, “to-day he brought his wife in to be
buried. She died last November.”
“December,” said the sexton.
“That makes nothing. She died last December then, and he notified the
commune.”
“December eighteenth,” said the sexton.
“Anyway, he couldn’t bring her over to be buried until the snow was
gone.”
“He lives on the other side of the Paznaun,” said the sexton. “But he
belongs to this parish.”
“He couldn’t bring her out at all?” I asked.
“No. He can only come, from where he lives, on skis until the snow
melts. So to-day he brought her in to be buried and the priest, when he
looked at her face, didn’t want to bury her. You go on and tell it,” he
said to the sexton. “Speak German, not dialect.”